


you leave me swimming in mystery

by NotPersephone



Series: Count and Countess Lecter [30]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Greek Mythology References, Masquerade Ball, Venice, perfect marrieds are perfect, pretending not to know each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 15:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19153921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: “It is a masquerade ball, we should enjoy an element of mystery, don’t you think?” her eyes gleam teasingly before she covers them with sunglasses once more.Hannibal barely nods. He should never underestimate her ability to surprise him. Or rather, overvalue his to predict her.





	you leave me swimming in mystery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Piccolastella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piccolastella/gifts).



The gold embossed card catches the light of the morning sun, flakes glinting playfully, its ecru colour strangely vivid against the white of the table but looking as discarded as the crumbs of the pastry on the plate resting by its side.

“We do not have to attend.”

Hannibal’s eyes fall on the abandoned invitation as he steps onto the balcony and hands Bedelia a fresh cup of cappuccino. She accepts the drink with a nod and a brief smile but offers nothing more. Her thoughts are even more impenetrable than usual with her eyes concealed by sunglasses and her face in the shadow of an oversized hat, as much a cover against the blistering sun as against the prying eyes of the tourists touring the canal. He briefly surveys a gondola passing slowly through the water below them and its occupants, luckily too focused on taking each other’s pictures to look up. Hannibal smiles; social self-obsession is doing wonders for their safety and animosity.

Apart from certain selected circles, that is. The news of the Count and Countess Lecter’s return to Venice spread like a high water among the social elite and a string of invitations followed at once. Everyone was hopeful for the pleasure of their company. Prazi, cene and endless aperitivi; they have been the most sought-after couple in the city. And Hannibal did not mind any of the regard. On the contrary, he relished every moment of having Bedelia by his side. She attracts countless adoring stares everywhere they go, and it fills him with the sense of pride. She is magnificent, he knows it well. Hannibal does not believe in a concept of luck, but he feels lucky that she has chosen him, and he takes enjoyment in every occasion to celebrate it. Yet given the number of engagements, he would understand if Bedelia felt tired of the outings.

Especially one so overdone. He picks up the card from the table, his gaze studying the masks imprinted above the hand lettered invitation. A masquerade ball. An odd choice as carnivale is long over, but that has never stopped Venetians and their penchant for elaborate cover before. Now they seemed to be pulling all their tricks to keep their most desired guests entertained.

“It will be a rather garish affair.”

He places the card back on the table and sits on the chair next to Bedelia who looks at the invitation and then him from behind her glasses, her scrutiny now noticeable even through the dark lenses.

“The three new dresses in my wardrobe say otherwise,” she finishes her drink and sets the cup on the table with a half-smile pulling at her lips.

“They are for you, not for the ball,” Hannibal says almost too defensively. He does not need a reason to gift her with beautiful things. “We can decline the invitation, we do not owe anyone our time,” he reassures her anew. Despite his social amusement, it is her he wants to be with, and they do not need to leave the palazzo to do so. Preferably, not even the bed.

“No, I would like to attend,” Bedelia takes off her glasses and meets his startled gaze.

“Of course. I will make arrangements right away,” he responds, his mind already placing an order in the city’s best mask workshop and obtaining outfits to match. There is only one week to prepare, after all.

“No,” Bedelia stops him with a flick of her wrist, halting his train of thoughts before it left the station, “I will see to my attire.”

“As you wish,” he says, slightly puzzled, but ready to adjust his plans accordingly, “What outfit were you thinking about?”

Bedelia inclines her head, her smile widening to puckish grin, shifting in her chair.

“You will see in a week,” she responds curtly.

“But how will we match?” he asks, at greater loss now.

“We won’t,” Bedelia stretches her legs out into the sun with obvious delight, an alluring sight that only distracts Hannibal further. “It is a masquerade ball, we should enjoy an element of mystery, don’t you think?” her eyes gleam teasingly before she covers them with sunglasses once more.

Hannibal barely nods. He should never underestimate her ability to surprise him. Or rather, overvalue his to predict her.

 

If Hannibal expected to find out more about her ensemble later, he was utterly disappointed. Bedelia’s outfit arrives the day before the ball, wrapped up securely in a protective cover, another layer to the mystery and a seal he did not dare break, respecting her wishes. All will be revealed tomorrow, he smiles in silent anticipation, curbing his inquisitiveness for one last night.

The following midday, Bedelia joins him in the bathroom, just as Hannibal finishes shaving, ensuring a neat look for this evening’s event. Wiping his cheeks, he smiles as she stands next to him. Putting the towel away, he is about to reach for the bottle of lotion on the counter, but she is one step ahead, taking the bottle and opening it with silent contemplation.

“Signora Rizzo invited me to join her before the ball. She was eager to display the produce of her new plantation,” she pours the lotion on her hands and brings them to his face, “Which is mostly pistachios, apparently.”

“Pistachios?” Hannibal raises a critical eyebrow, but his further comment is muted by Bedelia’s fingers moving to apply the lotion around his lips.

“Yes, I know,” a raise of her own eyebrow matches his as she tilts her head in an agreement, “But she seemed very enthusiastic; it would be rude to decline.”

Hannibal nods, enjoying the feel of her hands against his bare skin.

“What time should we leave?” he wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her against his body. No opportunity for closeness should be wasted.

“Signora Rizzo did not mention anything about you,” Bedelia says casually, continuing to massage the lotion into his skin.

“You will go alone then?” Hannibal frowns instantly, more displeased with being deprived of her company, even briefly, than the obvious discourtesy of being omitted.

“Are you jealous still?” she asks, clearly amused then sets the bottle aside.

Hannibal pouts and his gaze falls downwards; he cannot help it but feel annoyed with every person not deserving Bedelia’s attention. He fails to acknowledge that is it, in fact, _every_ person.

“I need time to prepare,” she strokes his cheek bones with her thumbs lovingly and disentangles herself from his arms. “I will meet you at the ball. No peeking,” with the warning and a final glance at him, she disappears behind the bathroom door.

Hannibal is left alone for the rest of the afternoon, hardly the amusement he had in mind.

 

The clouds gather over the city by the time the evening arrives, a fitting accompaniment to Hannibal’s dampened spirits. He lays out his own outfit when a sound of a boat arriving outside alerts his senses; it must be Bedelia’s taxi. He hears the front door opening and closing and fights the urge to glance through the window. The thrill of the secrecy has been now diminished by Bedelia’s early departure.

With a resigned sigh, he sets to dress himself. He opted for an all-black tuxedo and shirt with a black and red mask to match. The vibrant red emerges through the cracks in black leather, like burning coals of the fiery inferno advancing to the surface of earth. It matches the pinpoints of red in Hannibal’s eyes, his true nature amplified under the guise of the ball. The edges of the mask appear to flow and settle like a black smoke made solid.

As he finishes dressing, first drops of rain drum against the window behind him and darkness falls in an appropriate accessory for his attire. He adjusts the mask and appraises himself in the mirror; his eyes shine menacingly behind the cover. He smiles at his reflection; the hell is truly empty tonight.

The rain begins to fall in earnest by the time Hannibal leaves the villa. It takes him a while to cross the canal, sudden change of weather engaging most of the taxis and diminishing visibility. Ca’Rezzonico shines like a bright beacon in the sea of the downpour, an inviting island of lights and warmth, the perfect site for a night of lavish excess. Hannibal pays the helmsman and rushes through the deck to the front gate. The growing babble of voices and rising crescendo of music tells him that he is late; he chastises himself for the unacceptable discourtesy. The door man lets him in with a smile and a nod, and Hannibal makes his way upstairs to the grand hall, guided by an increasing burble of merriment. He steps through the ornamented door and pauses, surveying the gathering, his instincts sharpened at once.

The ballroom looks magnificent, but his sartorial eye falls critically on the attending guests; there was no colour code, but most patrons opted for a muted black and white attires and masks. Hannibal sees colombina masks looking back at him from every corner of the room. Yet the idea of even a faint disguise seemed to have loosened everyone’s propriety; the voices are louder, comments bolder and alcohol flows in exuberance. But none of that matters as Hannibal now employs his hunter’s skills to find the one person that does. He does not have to look long; his eyes are drawn to her almost immediately as though guided by a string threading from his heart and reaching all the way to where she stands. Hannibal takes a sharp inhale.

Bedelia has chosen red for the evening, his favourite colour on her. A floor-length gown clings to her like second skin, one appearing as though conjured with a mere snap of her fingers, fabric wrapping itself around her body in swirls, charmeuse gliding over her curves like a sensuous caress. The train is adorned with flowers gathered around her feet like her own spring, one she brings and takes away at her will. Rubies drip from her ears like tiny buds or drops of blood, depending on how you perceive it, a contradiction that fits her alone. The stones also embellish her mask, red with strokes of black, roots sprouting between the foliage, an almost opposite of his own palette. Hannibal smiles, thrilled by this fortunate match, their mind so ever in sync. The rubies are arranged in a clustered design on the top corner of her mask, reminding Hannibal of a split pomegranate, the fruit ripe and tempting with its sparkling jewels of seeds.

Lips parted, he stares, stunned by her beauty, shimmering among the insignificant mass of plain visages. Hannibal watches her effortlessly dazzle the people gathered around her as if casting another spell with one brush of her hand. They gape at her with adoration, leaping at her every word and gesture, utterly infatuated with her and so is Hannibal. Not wanting to add rudeness to his tardiness, he patiently waits for her to disengage from the conversation, silently enjoying the sight. She was right to keep the mystery, Hannibal concludes, carefully storing the image of her away in the most valued room in his memory palace, placing it on a well-lit pedestal, to be admired frequently.

“Oh Count, how wonderful to see you,” the curator of the Guggenheim museum takes her opportunity to engage him, hand squeezing his arm in obvious excitement.

“Buena sera Signora Fazio, what a splendid event, congratulations,” he acknowledges her involvement in the planning of the evening and the woman’s face lights up in glee.

“Not as splendid as _Contessa_ ,” she gazes in the direction of Bedelia, the clear star of her gala, “She has already charmed every person here,” she turns back to Hannibal who beams with proud joy.

“You are quite right,” he continues to watch the gathering with the gem of Bedelia in its middle. For once, he does not resent their attentiveness. After all, he is the one she will be coming home with tonight.

“Well, I hope you will both enjoy yourselves,” Signora Fazio offers him a flirtatious wink and disappears among the nearest group of people.

Further down, the discussion appears to have concluded as Bedelia steps away from the circle and Hannibal walks towards her at once, manoeuvring his way through the assembly of guests with cat-like swiftness. Her back is turned when he approaches her, and he wastes no time in slipping his arm around her hips.

“I apologise for being late,” he whispers in her ear, “You look breathtaking,” he lets his lips brush over her lobe, not able to resist. Unexpectedly, she tenses in his arms, perhaps disapproving of his public display of affection. Or his delay.

She turns to look at him, her burning eyes appearing distant as she scrutinises him from head to toe. Perhaps it is the water drops on his jacket that have unsettled her. He thought he had managed to avoid getting wet, but clearly not entirely.

“And I apologise my appearance, it is quite a deluge,” he attempts to brush away whatever moisture remains clinging to the fabric.

“I am sorry, do I know you?” Bedelia speaks at last, head inclining in what appears to be genuine confusion.

Hannibal is stunned; his hand still on his shoulder, he opens his mouth to respond but words refuse to form.

“I know it is a masquerade ball, but this is a rather audacious move,” Bedelia continues, not letting his thoughts settle, “Or perhaps you have mistaken me for someone else,” she smiles coyly, “I hope you will find them. Good evening.”

She turns around and walks away slowly as Hannibal’s mouth remains parted, his mind in complete disarray. His eyes follow Bedelia as she is offered a glass of wine and swept away by another group of admirers. Rooted to his spot, Hannibal strives to make sense of what has transpired.

He watches her closely, seeing her smile and talk, hand moving from her waist to rest on her hip, somehow more flirtatious than usual. Hannibal’s mouth twitches as she places her hand on another woman’s forearm and leans forward in an intimate whisper. She does not look back at him, but he is certain she knows he follows her every gesture. A purposeful display then, connected with her dismissal. Hannibal considers her notions regarding this evening. There seem to be more to the mystery of the evening than the attire. Bedelia has decided to embrace the anonymity and engage in a game of their own. Hannibal’s mouth closes and turns into a triumphant smile.

_She is magnificent._

He straightens his jacket and adjusts its button, his composure in place anew, his mind lucid and set on its course. He takes a glass from a tray of a passing waiter and begins to mingle with the guests, making up for his previous lack of manners, but his eyes remain on Bedelia at all times. Patiently, he waits for the right moment to make another, better, “first impression”.

Hannibal knows it is all part of her game, but her rejection managed to inflict a painful jolt in his heart. He sees her hand moving to adjust the placement of her mask, the glint of her wedding rings shining a reassuring light as he absentmindedly traces his own.

The game is meant for them alone.

As if sensing his intentions, Bedelia moves away from the group of guests and makes her way to the front of the hall, standing in front of the tall windows. Hannibal resists the need to rush after her, taking his time and finishing his drink first. He intends to properly meet the challenge she set out for him.

Finally, he walks towards the window; the clamour of the party fades into the background as he approaches the scene of their play, a quiet island among the soaring waves of guests. He glances at the landscape behind the glass, a rain distorted portrait of the stunning city, all colours and blurred lines. A view Bedelia seems to be currently engrossed in, closely studying the vibrant hues. The jewels on her mask reflect the muted light, sparkling in silent invitation, yet it is not its lustre that tempts him, as the shine of eyes is no match for any seeds. Hannibal smiles; he always knew it was the god of the underworld who was tempted and lured away first. And he goes willingly, unable, and not wanting, to resist her pull.

“Excuse me,” the reserved politeness in his voice rings oddly in his ears, the tone used in formal encounters. He has not imagined he would be using it with his wife.

She turns at the sound of his words, a mild interest in her eyes. Hannibal stifles another urge to do _anything_ to be in her favour. He knows she would not like that; he keeps his want at bay and proceeds as planned.

“I would like to apologise for my previous behaviour,” his eyes downcast, his apology sincere, “I was swept away by the atmosphere. It was very rude.”

“That is quite all right,” she inclines her head in acceptance of his apology, “So you were not looking for someone else?”

“No, I was not,” he responds at once, “Are you waiting for someone?”

“What gives you that impression?” she narrows her eyes, her curiosity piqued.

“Given the adoring looks of the other patrons, it is hard to believe that such a remarkable woman like you is here alone,” he means every word, but Bedelia does not appear to be impressed by his attempt of flattery.

“Maybe that is the exact reason why she is here alone,” she retorts, not without a grain of sour truth.

This time Hannibal nearly abandons his play, wanting nothing more than to steal her away in his arms, the sentiment he kept at bay in his heart for years, before finally being able to make it a reality. It did not matter how other people had perceived her, none of them was worthy of her.

“Since we are both unaccompanied, perhaps we can start again?” pulling his emotions away, he puts the conversation back on its desired road instead.

“We can,” she offers him an encouraging smile. Evidently, he has been playing well so far.

“My name is-” he begins, but she stops him with a gentle lift of her hand.

“For someone so enticed in this evening, you do not grasp its full potential. Are you not fond of masks?” she asks and Hannibal struggles to hide a smile.

“Quite the contrary,” he picks up her challenge, “Masks is what makes people interesting.”

“So, I think we should keep them on, don’t you?” she carries on establishing the rules of her game and Hannibal is even more besotted.

“I am certain you do not need it,” he risks another complement and this time Bedelia smiles favourably. His heart leaps; he is outmatched in every way, but he does not care in the slightest.

“Can I refresh your drink?” he motions to her empty glass and she lets him take it.

The waiter appears almost immediately, and Hannibal sets down the glass, taking two full ones.

“To all things hidden,” he offers her the glass and lifts his own. She mirrors his gesture with another pleased half smile.

“Is that what brings you to Venice?” she asks, taking a sip of her wine, corners of her mouth lifting in appreciation of the vintage, “There is a lot of treasures to be uncovered here,” she concludes.

“Some less concealed than others,” another involuntary compliment slips pass his lips. It is hard to refrain from the praise when he spends every day cherishing her. Perhaps, that is why she has chosen this challenge for him.

Her sharp eyes assesses him anew, not acknowledging his remark, but not dismissing it either.

“But yes, I have fallen under the charm of la Serenissima like so many other travellers over the centuries.”

“Their journeys were perilous at times, but the fortune has been favouring you so far,” she states, the first clear reciprocation of his own praise.

Hope radiates in his veins, promising warmth settling in his chest, as if he were truly courting her for the first time.

The quartet in the far corner strikes a new chord, an unmistakable strong note of waltz. Hannibal’s heart flutters instantly, longing to whisk Bedelia away as per usual, but he retains his self-command, following the rules she set out.

“Would you like to dance?” he asks, almost timidly, not remembering the last time he had uttered this question, dancing like second language to them, one that does not require words.

He spots a flicker in her eyes, a similar thrill at the sound of the melody, yet she remains collected as she responds with a simply yes. Hannibal relieves her of the glass, setting it on the nearest table and offers his hand. She takes it with a soft incline of the head; the familiar touch is almost shy as Bedelia keeps to the premise, keeping her distance. He leads her back to the middle of the floor, other hand now resting on her back with the same polite reserve.

He slowly pushes at her hand and they begin their dance, moving with flawless mastery, perfectly poised, a sinuous flare of red and black. The space around them becomes less crowded as some guests take a step back, forgoing their own dance and watching the striking couple. But it remains unnoticed, as Bedelia and Hannibal continue to glide across the floor, unaware of anyone but each other.

As the orchestra prepares to finish the piece, Hannibal dares to take another risk; his hold on Bedelia’s back tightens and her body gives in at once to the familiar move as he dips her with effortless ease. She finds her breath with a sharp inhale as he brings her back to standing, arms still wrapped securely around her frame.

“Did I get carried away again?” he asks cautiously.

“No, it was perfect,” her eyes shine brilliantly, trickling with what surely would have been a first drop of infatuation if they had indeed just met.

“Another drink?” he is ready to step away, but she remains standing close to him.

“Another dance,” she counters, gently adjusting the placement of her hand on his shoulder.

Hannibal grins and complies immediately,

They spend the remaining of the evening alone, oblivious to other guests, absorbed by the game and each other. Hannibal takes great pleasure in walking her down the adjoining corridors and discussing the numerous works of art at display. He is careful not to intentionally draw her attention to the ones he knows she likes. An effort that earns him another appreciative smile and a chance for his fingers to graze the base of her spine as he rests his hand around her waist as they peruse the collection.

They are one of the last people departing, the fact that must have thrilled the hosts, seeing as they were the coveted guests. Hannibal offers his arm as they walk towards the entrance and Bedelia accepts. The rain ceased, but the cold lingers in the air as they step outside, awakening them with a piercing chill. Bedelia shivers almost imperceivably, but it is enough to alert Hannibal; he takes off his jacket and places it around her shoulders at once.

“Thank you,” she pulls it closer with a smile and Hannibal wonders if the play is over now that they left the ball. “And thank you for the wonderful evening,” she adds, more formally.

Evidently, it is not.

“The pleasure was all mine,” Hannibal returns with all sincerity.

It always is.

Silence descends between them, the next move still to be decided. For all their penchant for games, the concept of first date is unfamiliar to them both.

“Can I escort you home?” Hannibal ventures a gamble and, surprisingly, Bedelia nods in agreement.

Swiftly, he arranges for a taxi and offers his hand as she slowly steps on board the boat, carefully pulling the train of her dress behind her. Once they are seated, he waits for Bedelia to give the destination, settling for the role of mere attendant. When they arrive at their palazzo, Hannibal gets out first, but only to assist her, his extended arm guiding her safely to the landing. She takes a few steps towards the front door, but he does not follow. Neither does he dismiss the boat; he intends to carry the pretence as long as she wishes him to, even if it means spending a night in a hotel.

The steps halt and Bedelia turns on the spot, watching him keep his distance. A faintest half smile of approval appears on her lips as she goes back, passes by him and pays the helmsman, sending him away. Her eyes follow the boat’s departure, until its lights disappear among the lanterns of the canal. She then turns to Hannibal and takes a step forward, their bodies close but not touching. He thought he managed to figure out the game, but she remains one step ahead of him at all times. It is exhilarating; he wants nothing more than to kiss her, yet it is her who decides what will happen next.

And she is aware of that power; she leans forward, head lifting ever so slightly, considering or maybe hesitating, weighting out the pros and cons of the night with a “stranger.” Her fingers move to his face, slowly tracing the lines of his mask, then his jawline. Taking another step forward, she brushes his lips with hers, whisper like touch, an amuse-bouche as she continues her contemplation. Finally, she makes her decision and her mouth presses firmly against his, a clear demand he meets at once. Bedelia kisses him fiercely. She does not want him; she already has him. Hannibal feels weak under the sensation, but he kisses her back with a hunger of his own, a now desperate longing to taste all of her. His vision blurs as he begins to lose his breath, but he does not need it; he only needs her. After a moment, she touches his cheek consciously, halting the kiss, but her lips linger on his, savouring each place they touch and pulling away with intentional slowness.

She observes him afresh, surveying the aftereffects of their kiss. Still breathless, Hannibal cannot do anything but wait for her final move. He has always valued his control, now he cherishes its loss to Bedelia even more. Her hands return to the edges of his mask, but her reluctance is gone, instead she takes it off his face in one swift gesture. She smiles upon the reveal, marking the end of their game.

“You have never needed a mask with me, Hannibal,” her thumb soothes the faint line of his scar with familiar tenderness and it is enough to shatter his state of perplexity.

He lifts her up instantly, making her gasp, and carries her through the main door, shutting behind them with a decisive thud, the final curtain falling.

 

Much later, they lie in bed, tangled together like resting reptiles, their second skins discarded on the floor, in favour of their own naked bodies, no more guise necessary. Hannibal’s head rests between her breasts, the beat of her heart echoing in his ears, the red currents of her life pulsating beneath her skin. And he has never felt more alive himself, not the way he feels with her. He shifts, his cheek giving in to the indent above her chest, enfolding her body with his arms. He hums in delight as her hand reaches to stroke his hair. The game is over, but the signs of her affection will never be taken for granted.

“It was not such a lurid evening after all, was it?” Bedelia comments as her fingers continue to play with the strands of his hair.

“It was not,” he murmurs into her chest, not wanting to move and disrupt the caress.

“And it is always interesting to meet _new people_ ,” she adds offhandedly, and this time Hannibal raises his head. He is met with a kittenish smile and a mischievous gleam in her eyes. He knows she will never stop surprising him.

“Only if they are you,” he lifts himself up to rest on his forearms and kisses her, “It has always been you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise for my penchant for sending them to Ca'Rezzonico at any given chance. It is my favourite palazzo in Venice and the 18th century lavishness is very bedannibal, especially the ball room. It is a museum, not a social venue.  
> Thank you to hageny for suggesting the idea of pretended "first date", I loved writing it! The masquerade ball just felt like a perfect setting for this play, and, of course, for these two in general. This one goes out to Irene, belated happy birthday! You are a treasure. ♥  
> This is definitely one of my favourites. As always, feedback is love and gives me life. Thank you for reading!


End file.
